Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

<b>General Makes His Move</b>

Derrick's Charger was a red bolt as he tore off down the road to his house. As he comes to a stop in his driveway, smoke emanates from the tires. Taking the groceries in his left arm, he fumbles for the housekey with his right. <i>Was it this brass one, or that brass one...</i> He stops in his steps. Something doesn't feel right. Something's.... off. Shaking off the eerie feeling, he unlocks the door and steps inside.

As he turns around from closing the door, he realizes that someone is in his house. In his parlor. Sitting in his favourite chair.

"Greetings, Derrick. Been waiting for you."

Derrick sets the groceries down on an end table. "General." He says the name coarsely, but calmly. He walks into the adjacent kitchen. The refrigerator is right by the entrance, and he begins unloading the groceries.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, not pausing in his task.

"I imagine you have some idea."

Derrick pulls a can of cola out of the refrigerator. "Care for a cola?" He asks.

"I suppose."

Derrick tosses the can behind him without looking. General catches it, opens, and takes a drink. Opening a can of his own, Derrick walks into the parlor and sits down across the table from General.

"This is my <i>house</i>."

"As far as I know, this game has one rule: us versus you."

"But, jeez, come on, have some goddam courtesy." Derrick shifts uncomfortably in the chair. <i>Dammit, this chair is weird</i>, he thinks. "And you're in my favourite chair, dammit." General says nothing and takes another gulp of cola. "How did you find out where I live, anyway?"

"There are... ways. Your comrades aren't known for their affinity towards planning, but we, especially I, take strategy very seriously."

Derrick takes a long drink from his can. "So I'm assuming you have the place surrounded."

General nods. "You've been a thorn in our side for quite some time. Your driving skills are better than Roe's, even."

"Yeah, but he's got that eight-wheeled monstrosity, what's it called..."

"Sleipnir."

"Right, right... Rocinante's a beauty, but she can't keep up with that thing."

"But you also have Mr. Kil and Mr. Rawke with the Christopher. We only have one car."

"I don't think car is the word." Finishing his drink, he crushes the can and throws it into the trash. "Well, I'm ready if you are." He stands up and moves his chair out of the way. His hand hovers above the holster of his revolver. General finishes his cola, crushes the can, and throws it on the floor. Derrick gestures towards the litter, glaring at General with a glare communicating a "what in the hell was that?" response.

"Alright, Mr. Magnusson," General spake, then inhaled deeply through his nose, "Draw."


<b>Derrick's Funeral</b>

Madorran Kil comes bursting into Simon Black's room.

"Simon!"

Simon wheels around on his desk chair, his umbrella in hand. He had been tuning up the mechanism and checking all the working parts. That umbrella had saved his life many times, and he took good care of it.

"Madorran. What is it?"

/Cut to Derrick's livingroom.

Simon and Madorran are standing over Derrick, who lies dead on the floor, a bullet in his heart. On his chest are five iron tokens shaped like line-drawn stars, arranged in a pentagonal pattern.

"General…" Simon mutters, bites his lip. "Sheee… This is Derrick's <i>house</i>."

"I know," Madorran utters solemnly, "it's rather horrible."

"Horrible? It's just plain <i>rude</i>."

Simon looks around. <i>At least they didn't wreck the place</i>, he thinks, observing the impeccable order that Derrick, a bit of a neat-freak, always kept in his house. Then Simon notices the crumbled cola can on the floor.

"General, you've taken this too far."

/Cut to Highway 40, south of town.

Everyone is in attendance. Simon Black, Madorran Kil, Rosie Bloom, Baron, Byrd Nimwise, Colin Rawke, Solomon Wheeler, and Garret. Derrick's body is tied to the roof of his blood-red Charger, Rocinante.

"My friends and comrades," Simon speaks, "Today we mourn the loss of Derrick Magnusson. Friend, companion, brother-in-arms, brother-in-blood. I deliberated long and hard as to what sort of ceremony could properly honour this great warrior, and finally it came to me what would be most appropriate." He walks over to Rocinante, placing his hand on her hood. "Just as his Viking ancestors were seafarers, Derrick was a roadfarer, and this was his vessel. And so today we will send his body on its last journey, and release his spirit. to whatever road it is to fare next."

Simon gets into the car, starts it, and puts it in gear. He takes a torch from the passenger seat, lights it, and throws it in the back. Then he puts a cinder block on the gas pedal, dives out of the car closing the door on his way out, stands up, and dusts himself off.

"Goodnight, sweet prince, and flocks of crowbirds sing thee to thy rest."

They all bow their heads as the car speeds out of view, flaming, until the distant explosion is heard.

"Now," says Simon, lifting his head up with a devious gleam in his eye, "If Roe wants to play cheap, then we'll just have to show him what happens to people who play cheap."

He holds a rolled-up paper in his hand and lets it unroll. It is a map of Galler. Two houses are marked with stars.


<b>Killing General</b>

Roe knew something was wrong the moment he saw General's front door swinging open in the wind.

"Hordut, Sil, cover me."

Brandishing his star-iron revolver, he steps out of the driver's side of the eight-wheeled Sleipnir, followed by Hordut Klumber and Sil Clender from the seats behind him. Warily, they advance into the house, finding a broken bottle on a sticky kitchen floor, a sparking shattered ceiling lamp, fragments of a vase, a few bloodstains on the livingroom carpet, and finally General's decapitated corpse.

"Aw hell," Sil mutters.

Roe kneels down to his fallen comrade's side and picks up the silver heart token laid upon his chest. Standing up, he says "Get him loaded up, we'll take him to the crypt."

"Yessir."

Roe holds the token up to the light between his forefinger and thumb. Engraved upon it are the initials S. B.

//"OKAY GENERAL, TIME'S UP"

*CRASH* The cement block came flying through the livingroom window.

General's eyes turned into golf balls and he dropped the bottle of scotch onto the kitchen floor. It shattered into shards and scotch flooded the black-and-white checquered linoleum.

Byrd leapt through the window and unlocked the back door to let Baron and Simon inside.

Coming to his senses, General ran through his secret door, bypassing the livingroom and hurrying into his study, grabbing his star iron 8-chamber revolver and longsword. He stood back against the hall wall, listening for his foes.

"Where is he?"
"He must've been in the kitchen, there's a broken bottle in here"
"I'll be damned, check this out! A goddamned secret door!"
"what?"

General stormed out from the hall shouting, barrell open bullets flying cylinder turning. ::Everything goes slow-motion:: *BANG* Simon dove across the livingroom sideways spinning *BANG* and whipped out his black umbrella, *BANG* opening it just in time. The imbued material deflected a bullet into the ceiling lamp. ::Time returns to normal:: Simon hit the floor rolling and rolled into the sofa but was unhurt. Byrd rushed out of the kitchen with his violin, bow down hard like a steam engine piston, played a sharp screaming note. A shock of red energy flies from the violin strings to General's hand, sending the gun to the floor sliding to the corner and nearly taking off General's index finger.

General ducked behind a chair to nurse his hand, but can't keep still long, they're coming for him. He grabbed a vase off a nearby sidetable and hurled it at Byrd, striking him straight in the side of the head. Byrd went down hard onto the elephant dog hide on the hardwood floor.

Brandishing the star-iron longsword, General charged at Simon, who, his own silverheart longsword drawn, sheathed the umbrella then charged to meet General. They collided in a clash of blades. General, being stronger than Simon, shoved him to the floor and was about to plunge into his heart, but the massive Baron slung a chair into General's general direction, striking him in the right side and knocking him down. General hit his head on the corner of a coffee table and crumpled, unconscious, bleeding.

"You okay, Simon?" Baron asked.

"Yeah, I'm good" he pulled himself up. "Byrd? You conscious over there?"

Byrd groaned. "Yeah, I think so." His head was bleeding pretty badly and he had fragments of vase stuck in there. Also, he fell on his violin bow, snapping it. Baron helped him to his feet.

"Hurry up and kill him," Baron said, "We gotta get Byrd to the doc."

Simon kicked the table out of the way, lifted General's head by the hair in his left hand, and in a swift fluid stroke hewed off his head. He wiped the sword off on an animal hide on the floor, sheathed it, and dropped a silver heart-shaped token on the General's dead chest.

Still holding the head by the hair, he said "Ok, let's go. Baron, carry Byrd so he doesn't bleed too much."

They ran out of the house. Colin Rawke was waiting with the getaway car.

//<i>Retribution</i>, Roe thinks, <i>Simon thinks he's sending a message</i>.

Roe squeezes the token in the vise grip of his fist.

/Cut to Roe Ironbones' house, later that night.

Roe walks in through his door, not noticing the broken window on the east side of his livingroom, and continues on into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, he notices that the pot of leftover soup has a piece of paper taped to the lid, with a note written on it: <i>Just in case you didn't quite get the message. Love, Simon</i>. Roe takes the pot, opens it, gasps, and drops it. Reddened soup spills out, followed by General's severed head.

Hi Marksman,

Initially the first thing that came to mind when i started to read this short was the tense in which in was written. Present. An unusual pick that is most often found in screenplays rather than short fiction. I think its an interesting tense to write in, however i find it more jarring to read in present tense when the writer accidently mixes tense, then when it is written in a past tense and the same mistake is made. It allows the reader to question the motivation of the choice of tense..intentional or unintentional?

"Derrick's Charger was a red bolt as he tore off down the road to his house." Past tense

"As he comes to a stop in his driveway, smoke emanates from the tires." Followed directly by a present tense sentence. And all throughout this short there lies the same problem. Really takes the reader out of the story.

I thought the story itself was kinda interesting in the beginning and the snapshot way you told it suitable, however, after the initial showdown it did remind me a bit too much of a Kill Bill or a Tarentino'esque homage trying to rely too much on the style of the characters rather then the substance of the story....which isn't necessarily a bad thing, especially if you are Tarintino.

Anyways, thanks for the read, take care.

Trevor

The tense shifts are all intentional.
A single line in present tense is a very small, specific, deliberate stroke, as one made with a small brush or a pencil, and etails for detailing exactly what's going on.
A single line in past tense can be a much broader, more general stroke. "Derrick's Charger was a red bolt as he tore off down the road to his house" could be represented in a film as a short montage of him driving down the road, shifting gears, a shot of the sun shining up his hood through his windshield off his sunglasses, a shot of the speedometer; "He walks into the adjacent kitchen" is a specific action, a single shot.
I felt that a quick series of "shots" of Derrick driving really fast, which would have created a fast pace of action, leading up to Derrick getting out of his car with groceries and fumbling for his keys would be kinda silly; I needed a broader stroke. Of course, I might change my mind in the future. It's happened before.


The stories there about the Silver Heart Coalition (SHC, Simon's organisation) and STAR (the SubTerranean Adventurer's Ring, Roe's organisation) lack substance because that lack <i>is</i> their substance. The conflict between the SHC & STAR is an empty conflict, a conflict for the sake of the conflict: "only a game."

It's not the focus of "Tales from Nowhere," nor is it really representative of the way many the other parts are (or are to be) written; I just posted pieces from that cycle 'cause that's what I've been working on lately

i like this and its movement.

i was also troubled by tense, though i had the idea they were intended. you seem meticulous enough to pay attention to that.

i appreciate your tense distortion. good idea. i'm a present tense kinda guy for the action of it. i'd rather see a sword swing than swung.

i'd like the cuts to have a more definite sense to them... like a sign on the highway. identification. even if it's just a symbol of a shift. more than the forward slash sometimes invoked. the forward slash is just too ... plain, boring, subtle, indefinite. hmmm... a milemarker.

i'd read more. let's see it.

by the by- i really dug the mouse thing.

Hi Marksman,

Thanks for getting back to me regarding the intentions of the tense shifts. Although I don't prefer the format you chose to write in, I have to admit due to some sections of your story, it has grown on me a bit and I definetly appreciate the interesting approach you have taken. I think the tense is of such that a person must spend time reading in order to get used to it.

One thing I'd like to comment on after a second read and your explanation is:

"*CRASH* The cement block came flying through the livingroom window. "

"::Everything goes slow-motion:: *BANG* Simon dove across the livingroom sideways spinning *BANG* and whipped out his black umbrella, *BANG* opening it just in time. The imbued material deflected a bullet into the ceiling lamp. ::Time returns to normal:: "

Perhaps in situations like these, give the reader their space to mentally add an onomatopoeia to the action given. I just feel it crowds me as a reader and doesn't allow my imagination to run as freely as I would like which is in fact, half the fun of reading. As a reader I like to share in the story rather than simply be told it by the author.

"I felt that a quick series of "shots" of Derrick driving really fast, which would have created a fast pace of action, leading up to Derrick getting out of his car with groceries and fumbling for his keys would be kinda silly; I needed a broader stroke. Of course, I might change my mind in the future. It's happened before. "

Perhaps, dunno. One suggestion that I have which may or may not suit your needs is playing on adjectives in the present tense...kinda poetic licensing the descripts. As I re-read your work, that kept popping into my mind during the present tense sections.

"Derrick's Charger was a red bolt as he tore off down the road to his house." ... "Derrick's Charger bolted red, skipping black asphalt the length of the road to his house."...dunno, just farting around with an idea. I think the present tense has a lot of potential for word manipulation.

"The conflict between the SHC & STAR is an empty conflict, a conflict for the sake of the conflict: "only a game."

Gotta say, though I don't really dig all the characters in the story, I really like concept.

Anyways, thanks again.

Trev

Thanks, guys

Hehehe, I found a tense error: "Byrd rushed out of the kitchen with his violin, bow down hard like a steam engine piston, played a sharp screaming note. A shock of red energy <u><i>flies</u></i> from the violin strings to General's hand"
That one <i>wasn't</i> intentional, hehehe

I used the forward slash because it has a very interrupting effect to me; I guess from the way I'm accustomed to it being used in html and DOS command lines

I'm considering something -- your input would be appreciated, if you'd like to give it. See, these stories, along with several more stories and a bunch of poems and songs, are all written to be featured in a single book, with the various storylines crossing and intertwining, and the poems & songs serving mostly for atmosphere (a welcome respite, I think, from the dryness of the prose. I like the dryness, but I also like the, um, wetness of the poetry). But as I was reading Jhonen Vasquez's comic book "Johnny the Homicidal Maniac," and, as reading comics always does to me, it made me want to draw comics.
And I was thinking, the SHC v. STAR storyline is very action-oriented, and probably some of the most visual of all the material for the book, that it might benefit from being presented in comic form. What do you think?
One thing I really like about that idea is that I can show what the characters look like, something I didn't really get to do because it slowed the pace down too much.

The book was going to be called "Tales from Nowhere" -- but Nowhere has been re-expanded to it's original state, and the world these stories are set in is only part of Nowhere, other parts being lighter and more whimsical & fantastical to various degrees. So I'm thinking about calling the book "440" instead.
(I've recently been feeling urges to be more unapologetically abstract. I'm like a man with a lime tree in his yard, and the branches stretch over the fence; do I apologize every time a lime falls on someone's car, or do I put up a sign that says "Not responsible for falling limes"?)


Anyway. Here, have some more "Tales from Nowhere" or "440" or whatever I'm going to call it.

<b>The Cutter and the Crow</b>


Jim the Cutter broke the window of the old house with his thirteen-pound, sheathed the blade, and crawled inside. Behind him, on a tree with a brilliant backdrop of the Wild Moon, an old black crow perched silently.

<i>Waiting for people is tiring</i>, Jim thought as he leaned against the wall, frowning down the front door. <i>Downing, always drowning...</i>

He heard a voice in his head intone, as if in response to his own thoughts, <i>And this sevent house is groaning, a-clutching at its heart, waiting, just as you are, for the moment to start</i>. Jim turned to the direction that this missive seemed to emanate from: the window through which he entered. Through its broken pane, there was nothing but the forest and moonlight. Oh, and a crow. An old black crow, staring at Jim, staring with a cold cold stare, the kind of stare that makes you cold.

Compelled to turn away from the bird's glare, Jim began contemplating the term <i>sevent</i>. It was not a word he had heard before. In fact, he was not convinced it was a word. But the shape of it, of the sounds, brought to mind images of slow decay, of unsettling angles, of violent invisible curves. Jim looked about the room. It was sparsely furnished, a chair, a desk, a brass bed, a bookshelf with some books. On the desk were several papers and a typewriter.

<i>Wonder what this guy did?</i> Jim thought as he pondered his job.

/Cut to a dirty office. The shadows of the room never attain black, they stop at a sort of sick brown. All light in the room is a sick yellow.

Jim the Cutter stands in front of the desk of Bugg. Bugg, lounging in his chair in such a way that he seems to ooze over the armrests rather than actually rest his arms on them, slides an envelope across the desk.

"The address and directions to it are in this envelope. Break in and wait for him to get home." Bugg's voice is dry and raspy.

"Then what?" Jim asks.

Bugg draws his thick, cracked, blue-tinged lips into a grotesque sort of shape, revealing teeth in advanced states of decay; a smile. "Give 'im the wink-wink shoveljob."

/Cut back to the old house, where Jim waits against the wall, his leather-gloved hand itching over the handle of the thirteen-pound.

<i>The night is very long</i>, old Jim, came that foreign voice in his head again, <i>and patience be a virtue, see, and haste can bring such plight; control your urge and your craze 'til it's time, for a jump on the gun before the moment has come could quickly end your rhyme</i>.

Jim didn't dare look back out the window this time. He laughed nervously at himself. A crow projecting poetry into his head, how ridiculous.

<i>Ah, but your fire will not still, 'stead it stokes and will not choke until the brokenness is done. Your days are young and you yet await your fee, oh and Ready, Ready, must you try always to be!</i>

Absent-mindedly, Jim muttered "You're a crow, not a mockingbird." Great, now he was conversing with his hallucinations. He tried to think of something else. Thought of the reward...

The voice responded to the thought, <i>Metal is metal is nothing. A colour change, a different name, still it all the same will be. You desire too much for yellow o'er black, and countless others have died on that same dead-end track.</i>

Enraged, Jim wheeled to the window and retorted out loud, very loud, "Old foul bird, what do you know?"

In his anger at the bird, Jim had not heard the footsteps approaching the porch. There was a tangible silence beyond that door, as of someone stopped and listening. Then came the click of a pistol being cocked.

<i>You've betrayed my presence!</i> Jim thought sharply at the crow.

<i>You're as dead as a bone on a road! Old Jim, doom is but doom and yours will come soon. And your greed is foolish greencoat murderer too. I am leaving and bereaving my company from you.</i>

The crow flew away, and the empty tree was like too many bones.


<b>Joe.</b>

<i>“no... not yet...</i>

NOOOOOO!!” Joe awakes with a start, coughs, spits blood. Blood all over his face, crusted in his hair, stained in his clothes. His blood. A wave of crushing pain comes over him, like he was suddenly possessed of a powerful internal gravity. In his veins.

/pan of the abandoned quarry: Demolished black truck, large bloody rock, pickaxe, Joe, shallow slope covered with hoofprints. It is night; the Wild Moon’s full light dimly illuminates the scene.

Joe takes the pickaxe. Yelling in pain, he pulls himself up, stabilizing himself, using the pickaxe as a crutch. Hobbling to the truck, his leg broken & in a splint, he pulls out a black leather duster and a leather satchel. Putting on the coat, he casts his eyes on the hoof-scored slope. “C’mon Joe… move… through… the pain…”

/cut to a dirt highway
/closeup of Joe’s eye: it widens

“Someone’s coming down the road…” See, Joe can do the math. The crushing pain… Dark lights lit up in his head.

A lone traveler is coming down in a horse-drawn wagon. Joe hides behind a tree and grabs a softball-sized rock. Joe throws the stone to the traveler’s head, knocking him unconscious, then descends predator-like.

“You should live, my friend… but so should I.”

He produces a chart, a hose, and drill-tool from the satchel. Consulting the chart, he inserts one end of the hose, equipped with an intravenous needle tip, into an artery in his arm. Again, the chart: “aorta, aorta…. Ah!” He drills into the traveler’s aorta and inserts the other end of the hose, then flips the switch on his end. As the blood flowed from the traveler to Joe, the crushing pain slowly subsided. Relief like the numbing descent of death - but warmer.

empty tree was like too many bones.

it could work as comic. or just illustrated. do you really have the patience to draw it? do you have a pal with a pencil? some sort of crossbreed of comic, prose, poetry.

please dont call it 440. i dont know what that is. but tales from nowhere is simple and sufficient. i like the idea of poems and songs and newspaper clippings and art and diagrams and even blank pages properly interspersed.

i wrote a book with a lot of meandering intertwining storylines in a variety of forms and non-forms, prose and poetry and anyeverything between. experimental fiction. well, you could plain call it writing.

jhonen vazquez is good. i have squee's wonderful big giant book of unspeakable horrors.

how bout some collages too? or are you thinking of sticking with line drawing? watercolors? ink washes? stipple? (sorry, i realise stipple is gratuitous)

enuff.

as i open this can of schlitz i understand that that really is the sound of one hand clapping.

Hi,

"I used the forward slash because it has a very interrupting effect to me; I guess from the way I'm accustomed to it being used in html and DOS command lines "

In my opinion a line break does the exact same thing especially if the next sentence is a jarring thought or action. Seems like an overkill and unnecessary.

"And I was thinking, the SHC v. STAR storyline is very action-oriented, and probably some of the most visual of all the material for the book, that it might benefit from being presented in comic form. What do you think? "

I think comics have come along way and aren't just looked at as childish entertainment. The content found within comics and graphic novels now range from silly to sublime and don't just deal with talking cats or red caped heroes. I think comic format is finally getting a bit more respect these days as a valid artistic format. I think parts of your story definetly would benefit from visuals, or if you so chose, verbal illustration to help the reader visualize more. I've always agreed with the statement that a reader is responsible for half the story, meaning it is up to a reader to mentally allow themselves to be taken to where the writer wants them to go...however at times I don't feel you give the reader a lot to feed off of. I know this was probably intentional on your part, but it does get a bit tiring having to mentally create too much of someone else's world. I find you do this more when you are writing in a present tense.

"One thing I really like about that idea is that I can show what the characters look like, something I didn't really get to do because it slowed the pace down too much."

Well that's the great thing about reading, I know I'm speaking for a lot of readers when I say it is often enjoyable to know details. And there are many ways of describing a character's appearance without directly saying...Bill was a tall man with a scar under his right eye. His hair was a curly blonde that had natural highlights from his penchance for surfing.....you can add subtle comments or actions to show this, say....Bill stretched for the bottle in the top cupboard above the fridge.....which automactically sends the reader picturing a man reaching for a bottle, and since cupboards above fridges are usually fairly high, the reader will most likely picture a tall man without you directly stating it.

"but Nowhere has been re-expanded to it's original state, and the world these stories are set in is only part of Nowhere, other parts being lighter and more whimsical & fantastical to various degrees. So I'm thinking about calling the book "440" instead. "

Egads! I have to agree with Mindbum, "440" isn't a very good title. It sounds more like a trendy restaurant that serves 60 different flavours of Humous and five dollar bottles of water. I remember a trend in the late 90's where every new drink joint or bistro seemed to be naming themselves with their area code or location...like North of 43, or 905, 604, South of Broadway and so on. Hell, they even tore down my favourite dusty wood floor cantina and replaced it with a martini bar, that had large gaudy multi colored plastic booths and a sterile metal grid bar with cutsey little swivly multi colored chairs and more hanging lights than a pinata expert could smash illuminating their cold white tile floor....they even named it after the area code..."403"...my heart broke that day. lol...so yeah, im my opinion 440 doesn't work.

I really liked the continuation of the story. I thought it was written fairly well and really got a kick out of Jim's imaginary conversation with the crow. Also felt the use of poetics by the crow was a good idea. Reminded me of Macbeth yelling "out damn spot out!". A few times I even forgot I was reading and became involved with the story, which I found hard to do in the previous installments.

"Through its broken pane, there was nothing but the forest and moonlight. Oh, and a crow. An old black crow, staring at Jim, staring with a cold cold stare, the kind of stare that makes you cold."

One more comment before I go...."Oh and a crow"...Personally I find that you have to be more commanding than to use a gimmic like that. I know what "feel" you are trying to give the reader, but personally I don't think it works. Makes it harder to suspend disbelief. Even effective gimmics, jars and twists should seem seamless for a reader.

Anyways, thanks for sharing the new writing, enjoyed it.

Trev

Well, what about "Tales from Nowhere: 440"?

See, I need to somehow explicitly separate this from the other book I'm working on, "Misadventures in Nowhere," about a girl and her friends from The City who accidentally go <i>between</i> to other realities in Nowhere... It includes things like the Master Who Lives Under the River, a talking tree named Mandolion Cherryberry Twogreen Rostand Miles Threeblue Postlin, a beagle named Governor Bennington, the American College of Wizard Arts, Molehill Mountain, the Hobogoblin, and other such nonsensical things. In "Misadventures," the characters go reality-hopping all across Nowhere; "Tales" is contained in one reality, the coordinates of which center on the point 440 on the 5th axis
440 is just an easier way to refer to the place, 'cause it includes so many different regions that all have slightly different, though closely connected, realities. At the most simple I can lump them into the Central Lands, the Rustbelt, and the Autumn Countries -- too much to string together, "440" is so much simpler


I fear that patience will be the limiting factor in doing SHC v. STAR in comic form. But still, I think I can do it.

I was also thinking of, instead of doing "Tales" in one book, releasing it in "issues" or something, chapbook length probably, with a colour painting on the cover and then text and black-and-white art on the inside
I would like to do watercolours, watercolours are my favourite things to work with next to graphite, but colour printing is just so expensive... the covers would probably be in watercolour or acrylic (which I often have a tendency to make <i>look</i> like watercolour)

OR "Tales from Nowhere" could be a series of book-issue things that includes the weird and silly stuff like "Misadventures" plus the dark places in the earth at 440

I just really like the resonance of "440." Say it with me, "four-forty"
'sone of those numbers that gets me, like 45 or 960 or 109

This setting used to include non-human races, such as elves and dwarves, from its origins in a table-top roleplaying game I designed. It has since become very different, but I decided to leave in ogres, goblins, and trolls, 'cause I like those old dark folktales so much.


I've got plenty more pieces if'n y'all want t'read 'em. I can go on all night
I greatly appreciate your readership & input

Personally, I prefer when you tell the story using past rather than present; in this particular case (the top story I mean) I think it helps make the story more real.

It also reminded me a bit of the Stephen King "Wizard and Glass" story, or maybe Twin Peaks, all that strange stuff happening that seems to make sense, but in a way that is beyond our comprehension because only part of the story is exposed, and nobody knows the rest, maybe not even you.

Anyway. I like it. lol.

I've never read any Stephen King. Is he worth reading?
I've seen a few of the movies based on his stuff. I like "It," "The Green Mile," and "Stand By Me"

I don't really read very much, but authors I <i>do</i> read that have an influence on my stories: William S Burroughs, Edgar Allan Poe, Richard Brautigan, Ray Bradbury, Neil Gaiman (I've only read his prose, none of his comics yet), Lewis Carroll, HP Lovecraft (the more Lovecraft I read, the more I like him more than Poe).
Comics are also an influence, just not as apparent; Jhonen Vasquez (JTHM; also created the brilliant yet canceled animated series "Invader ZIM"), Tony Millionaire ("Sock Monkey," "Maakies"), Mike Mignola ("Hellboy"), Warren Ellis ("Transmetropolitan"), Garth Ennis ("Preacher").
The biggest influence is my own dreams. A great deal of the stories are just transcriptions of events in dreams (or nightmares).
Another influence: the old "Zork" computer game series, which were text-based adventure games. Their general form came to be known as "interactive fiction."

Speaking of computer games-->
Programming is another of my hobbies, and I've been designing (haven't begun programming yet, due to strange computer problems) several Nowhere games, most of them focusing on the reality at 5th axis: 440.
The one I'll probably finish first is "Bonetown Games." See, in the Rustbelt, an entire city was bought up by this entertainment company, and they turned the city into a compound of arenas for gladiatorial combat, which they videotape and televise. They get away with this because all the combatants fight of their own volition (encouraged by enormous cash prizes). In "Bonetown Games" you will assume the role of a Bonetown fighter, and try to climb up the bloody Bonetown ladder to stardom. You will have to haggle with crooked managers, become popular with the audiences, win the support of sponsors, hire & successfully lead a team of fighters, and stay alive in strategic simulations of the games themselves, which will demand tactical ability in small-scale combat (probably 5 men on a team at the most) and general resourcefulness. At some point I hope to include multiplayer capabilities.

Oh, I'm afraid I've gone off on a tangent again. I do that sometimes

wow, that looks impressive. you must be spending a lot of effort on that project.

I'd recommend the long men in yellow coats, a short story in "tears in atlantis" by SK
there's also needful things
lovecraft is twisted
have you ever read any terry pratchett?